Racetrack's Quest
by Dakki
Summary: Even though the entire Newsies altiverse has been turned upside-down, Racetrack will stop at nothing to find the perfect gift for his girl. Half-birthday fic for Sapphy.
1. Jack's Quest

A/N: I've always like half-birthdays more than birthdays themselves. Getting a half package of double bubble, say, or half of a chocolate cake, is always better than the usual greeting cards and gift certificates, and nobody makes a big deal about singing to you. So when I saw that Sapphy's half-birthday was coming up, it didn't take long for a random plot bunny to be born...and the rest, I guess, is history. The plan (or at least the closest I've ever come to really planning anything) is that the last chapter will be up in time for Sapphy's half-birthday on March twenty- fifth, at which point you will all be obliged to send her half-greetings. Half-reviews, of course, will be accepted.  
  
And now, on to the fic!  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack stomped out of the bunkroom. He stomped down the stairs and out the door. He stomped over to the distribution office. Finally, he quit stomping around and stood very still, as he suddenly realized that he had no idea what he was so upset about.  
  
"Heya, twinkletoes," Jack said grimly, looking up from where he was repairing his motorcycle (motorcycle? Now where did that come from?)--er, selling his papes.  
  
Racetrack didn't reply, still deep in thought. Suddenly, it came to him. "Jack!" he said, "d'you know what day it is?"  
  
"Thursday?" Jack suggested, not really paying attention.  
  
"No—it's gonna be Sapphy's birthday in"--he checked his pocket watch-- "sixteen minutes, an' I haven't gotten her a present yet!"  
  
Jack answered, but was drowned out by a sudden roar from his motorcycle engine--er, his newspapers scattering to the ground.  
  
"Huh?" said Racetrack, perplexed.  
  
"I said, 'youse don't have to worry about gettin' Sapph a present 'cause she's doin' half birthdays dis year. Ya got six whole months ta figure it out.'" Jack turned back to his motorcycle and began adjusting the seat.  
  
"Well, whaddaya know," Race said thoughtfully, happy that he would have some extra time to consider Sapphy's present. Then he stomped back to the lodging house and promptly forgot about it for another six months.  
  
*~*~*  
  
SIX MONTHS LATER...  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack stomped out of the bunkroom. He stomped down the stairs and out the door. He stomped down to the distribution office. Just when things were beginning to seem a little too familiar, he looked up to see Jack sitting on the pavement working on his motorcycle, his cowboy hat and bandanna replaced by a leather jacket and a pair of rather stylish (if entirely historically inaccurate) Wayfarer Ray-Bans.  
  
Race whistled. "Smooth ride. Where'd ya get the bike?"  
  
"No idea," Jack said cheerfully. He set down his wrench and got up, dusting himself off. "What's th' problem, Race?"  
  
"Who said there was a problem?" Racetrack asked defensively.  
  
"Please. I could hear ya stompin' around from five blocks away."  
  
"Oh." Racetrack sighed, looked Jack up and down, and decided to share his problem with him. "Jack, I jus' realized that we're celebratin' Sapphy's half-birthday tanight, an' I still haven't gotten her a present."  
  
"Yeah," Jack said, trying vaguely to sound as if he was listening as he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of himself in the chrome-plated fender of his bike. He was looking quite spiffy, if did say so himself.  
  
"...an' I know I gotta get her somethin' real special, too. I jus' don' know what ta do."  
  
"That present Sapphy got you for your half-birthday last November really was pretty nice," Jack admitted.  
  
"A permanent box at the Sheepshead races," Racetrack said dreamily. "I always wondered how she knew just what I wanted, widout even askin'."  
  
Could be because you go around singing about it all the live-long day, Jack thought but didn't say. He was feeling just a little bit jealous of Race's happiness with Sapphy, and almost wished he had a girl who cared for him like that, and would buy him what he wanted for his half-birthday. Like a pony.  
  
"...a' course, I only got half a box, on account a' half-birthday presents always gotta be half," Racetrack continued, oblivious.  
  
"Well, that's something right there," Jack said quickly. "Whatever you're gonna get 'er, you only gotta get half a' one. Doesn't that help ya, Race?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Oh." Jack sighed, crouching back down and beginning to polish his bike, dejectedly humming "Born to be Wild" in the hopes that Race would take a hint and go away.  
  
"So, ya gonna help me, Jack?"  
  
"Ah, Race, I wish I could, but I...uh...gotta fix th' exhaust discombobulator, an' the diesel transmogrification valve is loose. Could take hours. Tell ya what, though, why don't ya go ask Snipes an' Tumbler an' the other kids? Kids know all about presents, y'know."  
  
"Oh, okay!" Race said brightly. "Thanks, Jack!" With that he skipped off to the lodging house, leaving Jack to work on his bike.  
  
*~*~*  
  
TBC... 


	2. Snipeshooter's Quest

A/N: Twenty days to zero hour! Yes, the days are flying by and the chapters just...keep...getting...weirder. But that's a good thing, right? (Of course it is.) I told Race to just get Sapphy a puppy...but no. *sigh* He NEVER listens.  
  
And now, on to the fic!  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
From the minute he mounted the stairs and began to climb upstairs to the bunkroom, Racetrack knew that something was wrong. He could hear a thumping bass line emanating through the walls, and the first thing he glimpsed through the half-open door was the sight of Les in full cowboy getup. This didn't seem so odd to him—the younger boys were always trying to act more like Jack. When he saw Slider dressed as a biker, he assumed it was because of the same thing. But when he saw Boots doing a strange dance, dressed up as a Navy man, Tumbler standing next to him costumed as an Indian, and Snipeshooter standing at the front of the room shouting orders, while dressed in the clothes of a construction worker, complete with hardhat—well, Racetrack knew that something out of the ordinary was going on.  
  
And then, he heard the music:  
  
"Young man! Theah's a place youse can go--  
  
I said, young man! When you're short on ya dough--  
  
Youse can stay there, and I'se sure you will find  
  
Many ways to have a good time..."  
  
The song took on an almost eerie quality when sung by the small, piping voices of the younger newsies. At the chorus, everyuthing united in a strangely beautiful fever pitch, and it was all Racetrack could do to keep standing there, and not run down the stairs as fast as he could...  
  
"It's fun ta stay at th'— WHYYYYYYYY, EM, SEEE AY! It's fun ta stay at th'— WHYYYYYYYY, EM, SEEE AY!"  
  
Tumbler stepped forward, doing a manic little two-step, and belted out his big solo:  
  
"They have ev'rything, foah young men ta enjoy, youse can hand out wit' all da boys—"  
  
"Cut, cut, CUT!" Snipeshooter screamed in frustration, ripping off his hardhat. "Tumbler, what was that?"  
  
"Well, I'se was just, uh, improvising dere a little—"  
  
"Look," Snipes said, looking about thirty years older, "I's choreographin' heah. If ya wanna win any prizes, ya gotta stick to th' dance moves. I mean, how d'you expect ta—" Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Racetrack hovering in the doorway. "Race!" he said quickly, swallowing nervously, "What are you doin' heah?"  
  
Race looked in horror at the boys milling around in their bizarre costumes. "I dunno, Snipes, whaddaya think you're doin'?"  
  
"Um...nothin'?"  
  
"Nothin' at all?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"So youse jus' normally dress up as cowboys an' Indians an' sin' strange songs about—"  
  
"YES! Yes, we do. All the time." Snipeshooter looked hard at Racetrack, hoping he had bought the story. Racetrack currently had a troubled look on his face that made him look uncannily like poultry; Snipes figured he was in the clear. "So, Race, what can I help ya with?"  
  
"Well, ya see, it's Sapphy's half-birthday tonight, an' I gotta figure out what ta get her. Jack said you might have some ideas."  
  
"Well, at th' age of seven-and-a-half," Snipeshooter said autobiographically, "I swallowed a small, live earthworm ta prove my love to Tessie Harper."  
  
"Oh," said Racetrack. He didn't really trust himself to say anything else.  
  
"So, what I'm sayin' is, basically, goils want some kinda gesture. Do somethin' brave, that proves ya care about 'em."  
  
"I dunno, Snipes. I don' really think Sapph would go for me eatin' a worm."  
  
"Well, to each his own," Snipeshooter mused. "You could always just eat a bug, I guess."  
  
"Right," Racetrack sighed.  
  
Seeing the poultry look again, Snipeshooter finally took pity. "Tell ya what, Race...Mush'll probably know what ta do. I mean, he's always got a goil. Why dontcha go find him? He's out sellin'."  
  
Racetrack smiled. Of course! Mush would know just what to do. "Hey, thanks," he called over his shoulder, bounding out the door.  
  
"No problem," Snipeshooter said, breathing a sigh of relief that Racetrack had finally left. "Now then...boys, I think 'In The Navy' needs some work..."  
  
*~*~*  
  
TBC... 


	3. Mush's Quest

A/N: AIRITH DOESN'T HATE ME ANYMORE!  
  
...And, in other late-breaking news...  
  
Let's see now...my sixteenth birthday is in...*ponders*...exactly forty-eight days. (Okay, no countdown. That's just not dramatic.) If my parents are right and are *not* lying, as they have so often in the past—until I was almost eight I still believed that eating crusts would make my hair curly, like my father told me—I was born at exactly 4:01 a.m. on April 22nd, thus making me the third youngest person in my entire sophomore class. But hey, I gotta have some kind of excuse for immaturity.  
  
And now, on to the fic!  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
It didn't take Racetrack very long to find Mush. He knew his usual selling spots, and he could recognize his voice from a mile away. But when he finally reached him, he very nearly passed him by completely. Even when Race looked at him close up, he could barely recognize him at all.  
  
Mush's typical attire of boots and brown pants had been replaced with a low- cut purple dress and what seemed to be an awful lot of heavy-duty lingerie underneath the skimpy fabric (Race couldn't imagine any other way that Mush could have managed to get cleavage. Nor did he really want to). A surprisingly authentic-looking blond wig was on his head, and he had been expertly made up in soft shades of lavender and rose.  
  
"Hey, Race!" Mush called out, when he saw his friend walking right past him and stepping off the curb. "What's goin' on?"  
  
"Mush?" Race said, in shock, walking over slowly and trying unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. "That you?"  
  
"Well," Mush said, looking at Racetrack unabashedly as he batted his substantial eyelashes, "it's actually Michelle. But, yeah."  
  
"What da hell happened ta you?" Racetrack demanded, horrified.  
  
"Whaddaya mean?" Michelle asked innocently.  
  
"Youse wearin' a dress, Mush. In case ya haven't noticed."  
  
"It's Michelle."  
  
"Whatevah."  
  
"So, Race, why'd ya come lookin' foah me?"  
  
As Michelle sidled up to him, Racetrack just stared, terrified. Never in his life had he ever though that Mush would make a pass at him. Jack, maybe—but Mush? No. Never.  
  
Seeing the look in Race's eyes, Michelle sighed. "Don' worry, Race, I don't swing dat way."  
  
"DEN WHY ARE YOUSE DRESSED AS A GOIL?"  
  
Michelle smiled in a secretive sort of way. "Lemme ask ya somethin', Race—have you evah felt velveteen?" Race just shook his head, unable to speak. "Well," he continued with a smirk, "once you've worn it, you don't nevah want ta go back."  
  
At this point, Race got a strange sort of look on his face that made it seem as if he was either about to throw up, or faint. Or both. Evidently, Michelle found it is his (or her) heart to take pity.  
  
"Aw, Race, c'mon. It ain't as bad as it looks, I promise. An' it ain't like youse nevah acted strange befoah. Remembah th' time I walked in on you in da middle a' the day singin' "Born in da USA" in yoah long johns?"  
  
"HOW IS THIS 'NEVER TALKING ABOUT THAT EVER AGAIN'?"  
  
"Calm down, Race. C'mon. Stop yellin'."  
  
"I'M NOT YELLING!" Racetrack yelled.  
  
Michelle just sort of sighed and put a comforting arm around Race's shoulders. "I guess it must be a shock," he admitted. "It don't make sense right now, but it will."  
  
"I'm sorry," Racetrack mumbled. "I shouldn't of acted dat way."  
  
"S'okay, Race. Now, what did you want to talk ta me about?"  
  
"Well, I gotta find a half-birthday present foah Sapphy, an' I figured you would know somethin' about it. Will ya help me?"  
  
"Shoah thing, Race!" Michelle said happily. "Can I give ya a makeover?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"I dink youse'd look good wid' a sorta corally color on yoah lips."  
  
Racetrack considered his options. He actually did not think he would look at all good with coral lipstick, he had much better coloring for burgundy, but he didn't want to hurt Michelle's feelings, either. "Well, uh...I guess youse can do somethin' ta my hair, if ya want," he said at last.  
  
Michelle squealed happily and leaped up, braiding shoulder-length extensions into Racetrack's hair with lightning precision. "Now then," he began, "th' way I see it, do more dough ya spend, da better. Goils always go for chocolates an' stuff like that, but if ya wanna really make a statement, jewelry woiks best. After all, ya know what they say..."  
  
"No, Michelle," Racetrack sighed, "what do they say?'  
  
"A diamond is forevah."  
  
"A DIAMOND?" Racetrack exclaimed in horror.  
  
"Race, youse shoutin' again."  
  
"WHEAH AM I GONNA GET TH' MONEY TA BUY A DIAMOND? WHERE WOULD YOU GET TH' MONEY TA BUY A DIAMOND?"  
  
Of course, this led to a lengthy explanation of Michelle's success with girls being such that wherever he went women would actually throw money at him. He had apparently made a pretty good living that way; he was saving to go to bartending school.  
  
And this, of course, led to another lengthy explanation of how not all newsies had wads of hundred dollar bills tossed at them every day, which Michelle had a hard time believing for an inordinate amount of time.  
  
"So ya can't afford jewelry?" Michelle asked tentatively, putting the finishing touches on Race's new hairdo.  
  
"Michelle, c'mon. I can barely afford ta stay at th' lodgin' house. If I had the money, I'd buy Sapphy a diamond ring. I would. But as it is..."  
  
"Oh." Michelle pondered this for a while, clearly at a loss as to what sort of advice to give. "Well, y'know, Race, ta tell th' truth, this is really kinda beyond my experience. Tell ya what, though, why dontcha go ask Crutchy? He may not be as studly as me—"Race rolled his eyes at this, "but he's good at givin' advice, an' he's always pretty helpful. Did I ever tell you about th' time he taught me how ta cook? I—"  
  
Race covered his ears and cowered, screaming in fear. "NOOOOOOOO! NOT DA MANICOTTI STORY! NOT AGAIN!"  
  
"Awright, awright," Michelle said, exasperated. "Fine. I won't tell it. Now, I'm gonna do your nails for ya...whaddaya think, seashell or frosted grape?"  
  
But, of course, by that time Racetrack had torn off down the street and around the block, wailing like a banshee. Michelle just sighed, wondering what had gotten into his friend, and began the arduous process of choosing between green and purple eyeshadow. 


	4. Crutchy's Quest

RACETRACK: Born down in a dead man's tow-own, da foist kick I took was when I hit da ground, ya end up like a dog dat's been beat too-oo mu-uch, till ya spend half yoah life just coverin' up...BOOOOOOOORN, in da USA! I WAS! Boooooooorn in da USA! I'm a--  
  
RACE! Please! For the LOVE of GOD, stop singing!  
  
RACETRACK: *innocently* But...Sapphy LIKES Springsteen!  
  
And so do I. Honestly. I think he's the sexiest thing to come out of New Jersey since Jon Bon Jovi. But...Race...don't you think five hours is a little obsessive?  
  
RACETRACK: Nope.  
  
*sigh*  
  
RACETRACK: Drivin' inta Darlin'ton county, me an' Wayne on da Fourth of July-eye...  
  
Well, things could be worse. After all, he could be singing "The Racetrack Song" instead. (Which by the way is a really bad song. It's just him going "who's the prettiest newsie on the block? It's me! It's me!" Over, and over, and over, and over, and over...)  
  
RACETRACK: Whose da prettiest newsie on the block? IT'S ME! IT'S ME!  
  
*sigh*  
  
And now, on to the fic!  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
If Mush had been hard to recognize, Crutchy wasn't difficult to make out at all. Despite his strange getup, Racetrack never could have missed him. After all, how many Elvis impersonators carried a crutch?  
  
Racetrack had to admit, the costume was one to be proud of. Forgoing the bloated-old Elvis-in-a-black-leather-jumpsuit approach, Crutchy had instead donned a silk shirt and a pair of blue suede shoes, and greased his hair into the appropriate 'do. But the real show-stopper was his voice: Racetrack could hear him from a mile away. Crutchy was singing a familiar old ballad that stopped people in their tracks, and instead of his usual, nasally tone he sounded deep, sonorous and velvety, and so uncannily like the King himself that only the accent kept Racetrack from thinking that it wasn't really Elvis (which was odd, as Elvis wouldn't even be born for another thirty-five years. But whatever).  
  
"Wise men say...only fools rush in...but I can't help...fallin' in love...with...youuuu..."  
  
It was all Racetrack could do to stop himself from bawling. There was something about this song that always got to him, and hearing it sung so beautifully, on an anonymous street corner in New York, just touched him more deeply than anything else...he got a lump in his throat, and tears filled his eyes. God dammit.  
  
"Like a river flows...surely, to da sea...darling, so it goes...some things...were meant ta be..."  
  
Race patiently waited out the song, and when at last it ended and Crutchy turned to him with a cheerful "Hiya, Race," he simply couldn't hold it in any longer: he sat down on a stoop and began to cry his eyes out.  
  
"Hey, are you okay?" Crutchy asked, sounding concerned.  
  
Racetrack just wailed something incomprehensible about his allergies and wiped his nose tearfully on his sleeve.  
  
With a sigh, Crutchy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, delicately embroidered handkerchief. Race took it thankfully and blew his nose with a loud honking sound that could be heard all up and down the block.  
  
"You keep dat one," said Crutchy.  
  
"Thanks," said Racetrack, wiping the last few tears from his eyes. "So, uh, Crutchy, I got dis problem on my hands, an' I was wonderin' if you could help me out."  
  
"Well, sure. What's goin' on?"  
  
"Y'see, were doin' Sapphy's half-birthday tanight, an' I still gotta get her a present. An' I got no idea what ta buy foah her. I was thinkin' you might have some ideas."  
  
"Like, what kinda gift ta buy her?"  
  
"Exactly," said Racetrack, nodding fervently. "Anythin' helps. Really."  
  
"Well..." Crutchy pondered this a minute, running a hand through his hair only to have considerable trouble getting it out again, due to the huge amount of grease that he had combed though. "I'll tell ya what," he said at last, wiping his hand clean on the tail of his shirt. "I don' know much about presents. But I do know one thing: as long as it comes from da heart, it don't matter what ya get her. I mean...you could give Sapphy an old sock, and she'd like it. 'Cause she loves ya. An' dat's all dat matters."  
  
Of course, this only set Racetrack to bawling once again. Crutchy put a comforting arm around his shoulders, giving him some time to calm down. Finally, Racetrack heaved a sigh, and said apologetically, "sorry about dat. It's been a long day."  
  
"You're tellin' me," Crutchy muttered. "But I guess you're looking for more specific advice, huh?" Race nodded. "Well, I ain't gonna be much help with dat. But why dontcha go back to da lodgin' house, an' ask Kloppah? He'll be sure ta know somethin'."  
  
"You think he will?"  
  
"I'd put money on it," Crutchy said assuredly. And then, just to cheer Racetrack up, he did: twenty-five cents worth. Skipping off to the lodging house, humming a happy rendition of "The Racetrack Song," Race left Crutchy to sell his papers, and work on memorizing "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love". Things were already looking up. 


	5. Kloppman's Quest

*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
Getting into the lodging house was a stealth operation. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky when Racetrack got to the door, and he knew that it was about the time that Sapphy would be getting back from selling her papes. He also knew that he couldn't let her see him-not yet. He only wanted to meet up with her tonight, when he could give her her half- birthday present, whatever that turned out to be.  
  
After a few moments of careful deliberation, Race finally decided that the safest way to go about this would be commando style. Flinging himself down on floor where he was sure he wouldn't be seen, he slowly dragged himself on his elbows towards the front desk, moving inches at a time. He was nearly halfway across the floor and making fairly good progress when Kloppman looked up and saw him. "Oh, hey, Racetrack."  
  
"SSHHH!" Racetrack whispered in panic, looking around frantically to make sure no one had heard. Smashing his face into the floorboards, he looked up at Kloppman with one eye and said, very muffledly, "keep quiet. I don' wanna be seen."  
  
"What was that?" Kloppman asked loudly. "Free beans? Is that what you said, Racetrack?"  
  
Dragging himself a little closer to the desk, race lifted his shin and looked up. "Don't. Say. Anything," he commanded, his prowess only slightly diminished by the fact that he had the imprint of a nail on his left cheek.  
  
"Well, Sapphy ain't here at th' moment," Kloppman said casually. "If you're lookin' for her. She's out at Tibby's."  
  
Rather sheepishly, Race stood up and dusted himself off, and sauntered up to the front desk, attempting at least a little pride. "Well, thanks for the heads-up, anyway...actually, I was wonderin' if I could tawk ta you about somethin'?"  
  
Kloppman sighed. "If this is about puttin' a sauna in the bunkroom, then forget it. You know by now that's out of our budget."  
  
"Uh...it wasn't about that."  
  
"Oh," said Kloppman. "Sorry. I've just been gettin' a lot of requests for that, lately."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah. Mostly from Mush, actually."  
  
"Dat'd be Michelle."  
  
"Ah. Right." Kloppman looked down at the register and underlined something, then closed it before Racetrack could see what he had done. "Now then," he said, "what's th' problem?"  
  
"Well," said Race, "y'see, we're doin' Sapph's half-birthday tanight, an' I still haven't gotten her a present. Ya got any ideas foah me?"  
  
Suddenly, a strange look came on Kloppman's face. His eyes clouded up, and when he spoke, his voice was dreamy: "I knew a girl once..."  
  
"Really?" Racetrack asked, surprised.  
  
"Yes," Kloppman said, beginning to do a slow little two-step waltz behind the counter. "Her name was Rosie Cotton...and she had ribbons in her hair..."  
  
"Oh, deah God..." Racetrack muttered.  
  
Suddenly and without warning, Kloppman reached out and grabbed Race by the collar, looking deep into his eyes. "I made a promise, Mr. Racetrack," he said, with such force that he was almost spitting. "A promise. Don't you leave him, Kloppman, and I don't mean to. And I don't mean to."  
  
"Well...that's...great..." Racetrack said, trying hard to mask his terror as he pried Kloppman's fingers from his shoulders. "But, uh, do you have any ideas, in your experience, what would make a good gift?"  
  
"Ah," said Kloppman. "That would be the One Ring."  
  
"Right," said Racetrack, already making a beeline for the door. "Well, nice ta tawk ta you—"  
  
"You know, I told Sapphy to abandon you," Kloppman added.  
  
"WHAT?" Racetrack yelled, spinning around. Even if Kloppman *was* insane, he wasn't going to take this one lying down.  
  
"Yes," Kloppman said. "But she wouldn't have it. She looked and me and she said, 'reforge the sword.'"  
  
"What sword?" Racetrack asked, against his better judgment.  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
Race just shook his head. "So, uh, you don't have any other ideas?"  
  
"Nope. Just the One Ring."  
  
"Dat's what I thought."  
  
"But, you might want to go ask that Mr. Conlon over in Lothlorien.  
  
"You mean Brooklyn, right?"  
  
"Yes, that. I hear he has some success with the ladies."  
  
"Well, thanks anyway," Racetrack sighed, letting himself out the door. The last thing he heard from Kloppman was a faint warning to watch out for the Nazguls. After that, he headed straight for Lothlorien—er, Brooklyn. If Spot didn't have any ideas, he would have to seriously begin considering the One Ring...and that just wouldn't be pretty. 


	6. Spot's Quest

RACETRACK: *wanders in, doing an air guitar worthy of Bill S. Preston* Ooh, my little pretty one! My pretty one! When you gonna give me some tiiiiiiime, Sapphona? Ooh, ya make my motor run! My motor run! Got it comin' offa the liiiiiiine, Sapphona!...  
  
*puts her head in her hands* WHY did I ever let him use my radio?  
  
RACETRACK: My-my-my-y-yyy, whoo! M-m-m-my Sapphona!  
  
*whimpers*  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
From the minute he set out for Lothlorien—er, Brooklyn—Race knew that Spot would be the answer to all his problems. He was the last stop, the golden opportunity...he alone would know what to do. And if he had to walk all the way out to Brooklyn to find him, he better have something good to say.  
  
The sun was beginning to set by the time he made it out to the Brooklyn lodging house, and it came as a slight blow that not a single person was to be found in the bunkroom. Or rather, one person, but definitely not a newsie. At the back of the room, on Spot's bunk, a girl with coppery hair was fast asleep, sheets gathered around her. Racetrack could probably guess what she and Spot had been doing before he left the scene of the crime.  
  
She was a deep sleeper, and needed to be shaken awake—but after that, she was perky as a button. Sitting straight up, she looked at Racetrack quizzically, with a friendly expression that said she didn't at all mind being found in such extenuating circumstances (and probably was all the time). "Hello!" she said brightly. "I'm Melodie. How can I help you?"  
  
"Uh...hi," ibility dawned on him that Manhattan's hysteria had spread through all five boroughs.  
  
"Well, after we were done, he looked over and me, and said, 'Melodie, I feel like a fag," and I said, 'well I'm sorry, Ronnie, but I don't have any cigarettes,' and he said, 'no! You don't understand! I'm a little...queer, is what I mean,' and I said 'do you think it was something you ate?' and he just looked at me for a minute and said, very slowly, 'Melodie. I'm gay,' and I said 'well I'm happy too, Ronnie!' and then he got really upset and he—"  
  
Knowing that if he didn't say something he would be trapped in conversation with Melodie all day, and quite possibly for the rest of his life, Racetrack cut in. "Do you know where Spot—er, Ronald—is right now?"  
  
"Oh, sure!" Melodie squeaked. "He's out on the dock, with that big fellow who hangs around him all the time. Matches. They're such good friends."  
  
"Right," said Racetrack, hurrying to get away. "Well, it was nice tawkin' to ya, Melodie."  
  
"Sure thing!" Melodie said brightly. It was the last thing he heard as he slammed the door and walked out onto the docks, empty but for two figures illuminated by the setting sun.  
  
Spot and Matches were standing next to each other, both wearing black karate belts and snatching at something in the air with chopsticks.  
  
"When man catches fly in air with chopstick," Spot told Matches, "man can do anything."  
  
"Yes, Sensei."  
  
"Hey, Ronnie!" Racetrack called in greeting. "Mind if we have a little chat?"  
  
Spot turned and smiled at Racetrack, shading his eyes from the sun. "Of course, Racetrack-san. One minute." Spot turned to Matches. "Practice while I am gone," he instructed. "Wax on, wax off." Then he sauntered up to Racetrack and offered him a spitshake. "Guess you met Melodie."  
  
"Oh, yeah. She's a...character."  
  
Spot just shrugged. "So...what is new, in...Man-hat-tan?" he asked, getting right down to business.  
  
"Well...y'see, it's Sapph's half-birthday tonight, an' I still haven't gotten her a present. I was wonderin', would you have any ideas?"  
  
"Let me tell you something, Racetrack-san," Spot said beatifically. "If someone goes down left side of road, is fine. Right side, is fine. But if goes down middle, eventually, is squish. Like grape."  
  
"What da hell is dat supposed ta mean?" Racetrack asked incredulously.  
  
"No idea," said Spot. "Now, if you want to impress Sapphy, best way is to defend. With karate."  
  
"With what?"  
  
"Karate," said Spot. "Ancient art of defense. I teach. MATCHES!" he called. Quickly Matches hurried over, still holding his chopsticks.  
  
"Matches-san," Spot instructed, "bring plywood." Matches fetched a piece of plywood and held it out in front of Spot. With a quick chopping motion, Spot brought his hand down on the plywood and broke it in two.  
  
"Well...that's...real...interestin', Spot. But uh..." Racetrack scratched his head. "I jus' don't think Sapph really has any plywood dat she needs broken."  
  
"Never know," Spot said, shrugging.  
  
Now, harmless crazy people were something that Racetrack knew how to deal with, and had been dealing with all day. But crazy people who would easily snap his neck were another matter altogether. Backing away slowly, Race raised his arm, signaling a cross between "goodbye," and "I surrender."  
  
"Wait!" Spot called, as he saw Racetrack walking off. "If want present for Sapphy, go ask Medda. She know."  
  
Why not? Racetrack thought. Right now, Medda was his best bet. He walked through Brooklyn, willing the sun to go down just a little bit slower. When he reached the Brooklyn bridge, though, it was nearly pitch-dark: he had an hour, at best. As he began to run towards Irving hall, the sky opened up, and cold rain poured down from the heavens.  
  
*~*~* 


	7. Medda's Quest

*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
By the time he reached Irving hall, Racetrack was sopping wet and chilled to the bone, his spirits low and his teeth chattering. But the moment he slipped in through the back entrance, he felt happier. Medda would know what to do. He was sure of it. Barely taking heed of the fairly good- sized pool of water that was forming around him on the floor as it dripped from his soaked shoes, Racetrack wrung out his cap and stepped forward into the warmth of backstage, and began to search for the person who he knew was the answer to all his problems.  
  
He didn't have to look long. Medda, always easy to pick out in a crowd, was especially visible tonight: standing near the stage shouting orders at some workmen, she looked like nothing so much as a giant fuchsia sequin in her glittery skintight leotard and tights. As soon as she saw Racetrack, standing a few yards away and shaking his hair like a shaggy dog after its bath, she called to him. "Rrrrrracetrack? Vut brings you here?"  
  
Race grinned, and walked over, "heya, Medda. Nice outfit."  
  
"Thank you," Medda said graciously. "I am preeeparring for ze beeg show tonight."  
  
"Could ya can the stage accent? I'm kinda here on important business."  
  
Medda looked at him wide-eyed, batting her lashes, innocent as sin. "Vut stage accent?"  
  
Racetrack sighed. "Nevah mind." Even if she was acting oddly, he could still get advice.  
  
"So, my leetle dumpling, vut seems to be ze prrroblem?"  
  
Dumpling? Where did that come from? "Well, y'see, it's Sapphy's half- birthday tonight, an' I wanna surprise her with something really special."  
  
"Ahh, yes," said Medda. "Sapphire Eyes. My leetle Svedish meatball. Yes, ze celebrration eez coming up."  
  
"Right. So, bein' a...woman, an' all, I figure you might know what she might want."  
  
"Let me tell you something, Rrracetrack," Medda said conspiratorially, "girls, zey want ze rrromance. Surrprise her weeth a candle-lit dinerrrr, or a special evening alone. Some music, some flowers..."  
  
"I'm not sure I'm followin' ya," Racetrack said.  
  
Medda sighed. "Put zese on," she said, handing him a bundle, "and I vill trrrry to explain."  
  
Having reached the point where he was willing to put on anything if it meant getting good advice, Racetrack stepped behind a screen, slipped out of his wet clothes, and put on a glittery lavender miniskirt, pale-pink bodice, and pink tights. When he stepped out, Medda squealed with glee.  
  
"Rrrracetrack!" she squeaked, "you look perfect! Ze clothes, zey feet you so vell!"  
  
"Yeah well..." Race mumbled, "I'm a perfect size six."  
  
"Eet is ze perfect outfeet," Medda said as she stepped forward and sprinkled some glitter in Racetrack's extensions. "And I shall call you...Rrracina."  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
"YES!" Medda said, stopping just short of a mad scientist laugh. "You see, I am brrranching out, from just ze singing and ze dancing. I am doing a magic act! I vill be ze grrrreat Meddazza, and you shall be my lovely assistant, Rracina!"  
  
It was at this point that Racetrack turned and ran, as fast as he could, straight out of Irving Hall.  
  
Nothing was going right, he thought. All he wanted to do was surprise Sapphy with something wonderful. He just wanted for her to have a good half-birthday. But diamonds were to expensive, and he wasn't cheap enough to do what Medda had suggested. He didn't want to give her a sock. He didn't know how to find the one ring. Besides—none of those things could have ever worked, anyway. What he needed was a gift that proved how well he knew her, how much he cared about her. How much he loved her.  
  
But he didn't have anything to show her how he felt. And he was dressed like a girl.  
  
With a heavy heart, Racetrack began to walk back to the lodging house, giving thanks only for the fact that spandex repelled water.  
  
*~*~*  
  
TBC... 


	8. Racetrack's Quest

Ah, the last chapter...*sigh* So many memories.  
  
*pause*  
  
Actually there really aren't that many, since I've only been working on this fic for about two weeks. But let me have my nostalgia.  
  
The last chapter. Where Racetrack can stop hanging around my house, eating all my top ramen and singing Bruce Springsteen songs, and at long last be reunited with his one true love, in the immortal fashion of Westley and Buttercup. And start eating all of HER top ramen. *glares accusatorily at Race*  
  
RACETRACK: *is completely jazzed, managing to tap-dance, sing "The Racetrack Song" and accompany himself on harmonica at the same time* An' now, on ta da fic!  
  
*~*~*  
  
Racetrack's Quest  
  
*~*~*  
  
And so it happened that Racetrack Higgins entered the Duane Street lodging house, bruised and banged-up, soaking wet and giddy with frostbite, but still looking rather spiffy in his glittery skirt and ballet tights.  
  
(Or so a certain young girl spying on him from the shadows would have said, at least.)  
  
As he trudged up the stairs and walked into the bunkroom, Racetrack couldn't think of anyone he would rather see than Sapphy. It was just his luck that the bunkroom looked completely deserted. He moved among the empty beds, peering into the darkness as he called to her. "Sapphy? Sapph?" From the back of the room he could hear a low creaking noise from the floorboards. "You in there? Sapph—"  
  
Suddenly, a strawberry-blonde blur streaked towards him, colliding with him and knocking him flat on his back. Racetrack looked up with one eye, and caught sight of Sapphy looking down at him from where she was straddling him around the waist, smiling like the sister of the Nissan man.  
  
"Caught ya," she said.  
  
And even after eight hours of walking all up and down New York, talking to the biggest nutcases in all five boroughs—Race couldn't help but smile at that.  
  
"Happy half-birthday," he said, with some effort.  
  
She smiled, rolled over and lay down next to him, as if testing the floorboards for softness.  
  
"Good floor," said Racetrack, turning to face her.  
  
"Firm."  
  
"Yeh. Good for th' spine."  
  
("Good for th' spine," probably isn't the most romantic phrase in the English language. In fact, there's a good chance that it doesn't even make it into the top ten. But when spoken by a soaking wet Italian in spandex who is lying next to you flat on his back and also happens to be one of your favorite people in the entire world, it would be hard not to laugh, and lean over, and kiss him on the mouth, as Sapphy happened to do at that moment. But maybe you just had to be there.)  
  
"So, did ya get me anythin'?" she asked him, half-joking as he sat up smiling, having already caught her good mood.  
  
He swallowed. Thoughts began to form in his mind; a plan emerged from the mists that wasn't even half-baked, in terms of logic—it was closer to being flambé'd. Or maybe pureed. Or slightly flash-fried, like halibut. Anyway, none of this bothered Racetrack. In this plan, there was the slightest chance of pleasing his sweetheart. And at this point, he would take what he could get.  
  
"Yeh," he said, getting to his feet. "A good one. Y'know, not so good as a permanent box at da Sheepshead races. But it ain't bad."  
  
Sapphy smiled as he reached down and pulled her up. "You know you didn't have to get me anythin'," she said.  
  
"I know. I wanted to." Which was true. "Go wait in da goils' room...I'll be in dere in a second."  
  
The plan, in essence, was this: Racetrack was going to root through all of the other guys' stuff, and see if he could find anything...present-worthy. It wasn't the most scrupulous method, but it was all that he had at this point. He just wanted to give her something beautiful and clever and loving and right...and if that failed, then just something.  
  
In ten minutes, he learned this: Jack had an astonishing lint collection. Itey needed to find a better place to hide his loose change and Blink had serious laundry issues. Actually, all of them did. But that was about it.  
  
Of course, Racetrack wasn't ready to take no for an answer. He would go out again tomorrow and find something. But tonight, even he had to admit that there wasn't much else he could do. Sighing, he leaned on the door leading into the girls' room, fumbling for a cigar. He could at least with her a happy half-birthday, for now. but while he was still fumbling for a book of matches, the door swung open, revealing him standing there. Sapphy was stretched out on her bunk, chewing in her hair. She looked up, smiling to see him wildly trying to keep his balance. "What'd you forget?"  
  
Racetrack looked at her sheepishly. "Got a light?"  
  
Sapphy straightened out, looking at him with a strange smiling expression on her face. "I know you, you're—you're shiverin'!"  
  
Well, this set Racetrack to wondering. "I know you" was kind of a bizarre thing for Sapphy to say. Of course she knew him. Although, the shivering part was true enough.  
  
And as Sapphy walked slowly towards him, Race realized two things:  
  
1. Sapphy had a slight lilt in her voice, almost as if she was singing, and  
  
2. he recognized the line she had just spoken. It was from a song that he  
heard her sing all the time. And he knew the line that followed:  
  
"It's noddin', dey turned off my heat—an' I'm jus' a liddle weak on my feet...would ya light my candle?" And by this time, Sapphy was almost laughing with happiness, wondering how long it had taken Racetrack to get this whole setup, even find the Mimi clothes—it was incredible. How could he have known? "What are ya starin' at?"  
  
"Nothin'...your hair in the moonlight. Can ya make it?"  
  
And so it went. They acted out the entire song, stopping short of Racetrack dashing out the door with his stash (which was actually a cigar). Sapphy caught him before he could manage that.  
  
"How did you do all this?" she asked him softly. "How did you..."  
  
"Aw, Sapph," Race said, brushing some hair away from her face, pulling her closer in. "It was noddin'."  
  
"You're amazin'," she said. "But next time, I get to be Mimi."  
  
And now, the only logical continuation was to kiss her, and wrap his arms around her; to bury his face in her hair and hold her too him and wonder how he had ever gotten so lucky...  
  
"SURPRISE!"  
  
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"  
  
As Racetrack and Sapphy leaped out of their skins and turned to face the door, they saw possibly the only thing that could have made the evening any better: The Great Meddazza, Ronnie and Matches-San, Crutchy Aaron Presley, Samwise Kloppman, Leader of the Pack Jack, Michelle, and the Little Village people all but breaking down the door, with Specs and Dutchy behind them holding a chocolate cake the size of Arkansas and the rest of the newsies filling the bunkroom, wearing paper hats and holding noisemakers.  
  
"I think I chipped a tooth," said Racetrack.  
  
And so it was that Sapphy's half-birthday party got underway. That night she accepted presents of an old sock, a pair of diamond earrings, a token to be redeemed at any time to see Snipeshooter swallow a worm, a bottle of chocolate body paint, free karate lessons from Spot, a plastic replica of the One Ring, and a ride on Jack's motorbike. But her gift from racetrack would always be the most precious of all.  
  
(Yes, even more than the sock.)  
  
And if you thought musical numbers from RENT were something...then you should have seen the talent show.  
  
Jack's Evel Knevel act was particularly impressive, as was Crutchy's rendition of "Love Me Tender". Everyone agreed that Mush's drag act was the sexiest thing since Jessica Rabbit, although trumped in fruitiness by Snipeshooter & co's well-choreographed rendition of "Macho Man". At Sapphy's insistence, Maddazza performed with the help of the lovely and talented Racina—but everyone's favorite was Kloppman's one man show of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. By the time he had finished carrying himself up Mount Doom it was well past midnight, and the tired couple retired to their room, with a well-worn copy of the RENT soundtrack.  
  
What went on that night is to remain between Sapphy and Racetrack. Everyone, after all, deserves their privacy. But I am told by reliable sources that if one thumps a pillow from that room particularly hard, clouds of glitter will still appear in the air.  
  
But that is another story, and shall be told another time. 


End file.
